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my500words : Day 21 : Confessions

Confessions

I don’t have a problem confessing to embarrassing things or awkward truths, under certain conditions.

As Shakespeare said in Hamlet, “Aye, there’s the rub.”

Those circumstances have to be met for me to open to you.

If I could invite you for a coffee, in a half empty coffee shop, and we were cosseted in faded plush chairs, I would search your eyes and look for trust.

If the feeling passed between us, and I felt an absence of judgement, I would open up to you, and tell you some of my secrets, with little reserve and in graphic detail.

In your own time, I’m sure you’d give me yours too, in the warmth and intimacy of our rendezvous. An exchange of precious pearls to conserve and jagged stones to discard.

Sipping my cappuccino, and absently picking nuggets of chocolate from my muffin, I would fall in love with you. Get lost in your smile, and yearn to caress the soft pink skin of your forearm. I’d sit on the edge of my seat to be closer to you, lean forward, and listen to the song of your voice as it passed those ruby red lips.

Each confession would draw us closer and closer until we were wholly spent. Empty. Nothing left to divulge.

Then I would cough and draw back into the recesses of my armchair, nodding and smiling.

You would drain the last dregs of your coffee and fidget in your handbag for more words to say.

There would be an embarrassed air in the space between us and we’d exchange awkward phrases in an attempt to dress the exposed wounds.

“Please don’t tell my boyfriend.”

“Let’s keep this between us.”

“I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Please don’t think less of me.”

We care a lot about what others think of us, don’t we?

It tends to own us in the long run.

I care a lot about what people think of me even though I realise that I’ve become trapped into how people expect me to be.

I’m only at ease in the company of one person at a time.

In a group of people, I clam up, listen to the rest of the group and keep to myself. I feel out of control and vulnerable, afraid of what others might think or say.

I wouldn’t really feel part of the group. What if they were to gang up on me? How could I possibly be of interest to them anyway? I’d fidget in my seat, pass my fingers through my hair, feel the comfort of my mobile. Anything to escape and be in my own company once more.

Then I would escape back into the day, relieved, but sad. Why can’t I make friends? I should probably just open up and be me, become part of the team. Be less demanding of others.

If I was more accepting I would probably fit in better.

Nobody really likes perfect. We all need to feel the pain and discomfort so that we can rise to heal the wounds.

I need to let go and be stupid, to raise my voice in anger and to let go and cry away the sadness when it overcomes me.

I need to be less of the man I think you want me to be, and more of the man I am.